


To Be Thankful

by greerwatson



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Gen, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stonetree makes himself Thanksgiving dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Thankful

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was written for Thanksgiving in 2012, and posted to FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU on October 8th.

Stonetree took the little bird out of the oven, and gently basted it.  The wild rice stuffing was bursting from one end, a small spoonful of sausage stuffing from the other, and the skin was already turning a delicate pale shade of gold.  He turned each of the pieces of potato tucked next to the Cornish hen.  Into the pan he packed parsnips and carrots, half a Spanish onion, and one of those huge mushrooms, and spooned the melted fat over them.  Then he slid the big baking pan back in the oven, squeezing it as far sideways as he could.  Beside it, in its own little tin, went the squash, its hollowed centre nestling brown sugar, butter, and a dash of pepper. 

A quick glance at the clock.

He set the pot to boil, shucked the ear of corn, and spent time carefully picking all the silk out into the garbage.

As captain, he could have set his schedule for a long weekend.  He could have gone home to the reserve to spend Thanksgiving with his family.  His mother would have liked that:  she was always on at him to come home, though his sisters kept an eye on her, and she’d certainly not be alone for the holiday.  But there were too many young hotheads who talked of genocide and racism and colonialism—picked, he was sure, from politics on the other side of the border, for he’d lived in the city long enough to know that, for his colleagues, the “thanks” in Thanksgiving was for matters more immediately mundane.  And even that was only if they didn’t simply take the day as a good excuse for a turkey dinner.  (Well, a Cornish hen dinner.)

He dropped the corn in the boiling water, and started to shred lettuce.

The truth, he had found, was that most people didn’t even realize his race unless someone told them.  On the one hand, it could be irritating to be _assumed_ to be white.  On the other hand, it did mean that he’d never bothered to feel the need to be twice as good.  (And he’d still made captain.)

At the table, he stabbed corn skewers in the ear at each end, and buttered and salted and peppered.  There was homemade cranberry sauce in the bowl, and pumpkin pie for dessert.  On the whole, he reckoned, he’d as much as anyone to be thankful for.

Though the pie was bought.


End file.
